


Tavern Songs

by disalae



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Beard scratching, Cats, F/M, Gen, Humor, Ridiculousness, Romance, Short, Unresolved Sexual Tension, prompt fest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-21
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disalae/pseuds/disalae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>UPDATED:  Chapter 7 added 2/2/15</b>
</p><p>A series of Dragon Age ficlets from prompt fest @ dragon-age.lj, comment fills, etc.</p><p>Each chapter is a different small story; tags and rating may change depending. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Best. Day. Ever. // (DA2, gen, Isabela, Varric, and Merrill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tuesday Prompt Fest @ [Dragon Age](http://dragon-age.livejournal.com/). Prompt was "Best day ever." Isabela, Varric, and Merrill.

It was truly a sight to behold.

Merrill’s appearance wasn’t really anything special, mind - after all, the girl was constantly getting herself into mischief, so the sight of her walking in with every last inch of her hair braided and feathered and flowered, her eyes outlined with thick black charcoal, and a kitten under her arm, wasn’t really all that unusual.

Varric looking nearly the same, however...

This she _had_ to hear.

“Hello, kitten.” Both the elf and the tiny creature in her hands perked up at the sound of Isabela’s voice. “How was your birthday?”

Merrill’s eyes widened to a size that even on an elf one would consider extreme. “Oh, Isabela, it was,” she couldn’t seem to properly form a sentence in her excitement. “It was the best day I have _ever_ had.”

Varric looked like he wanted to die. “I--”

“Varric is _so_ nice,” Merrill chimed in brightly, cutting him off, “we went to the Lowtown Market. There were kittens!”

Merrill shoved the cat in Isabela’s face. Isabela promptly shoved it back. “How sweet.”

Merrill was undeterred. “There was this lovely lady -- she had eyes just like yours, Isabela -- and I had her braid my hair and do my makeup and tell my fortune --”

“Anything good?”

“So many things!” Merrill replied loudly and excitedly, squeezing the tiny kitten in her hands a bit too hard. It squirmed and mewled, and Merrill patted it on the head apologetically. “Sorry, kitten.” A pause. “Oh! Isabela look, we both have someone to call kitten.”

“We do indeed, sweet thing.”

“I don’t know if I should keep it,” Merrill said, somewhat morosely in comparison. “Do you think maybe Anders would want it?”

“I’ll ask.” Isabela purred, giving Merrill a wink. She had to run down to his clinic later anyway, to get a dangerously high upper thigh cut that didn’t actually exist yet healed (sometimes, you have to _make_ your opportunities, now don’t you?)

“Anyway,” Merrill started up again, “because Varric had been so sweet to take me there, I said he should have his fortune and everything done too.” She looks over at Varric proudly, like he’s an accomplished child. “Ooh, it was just so much fun, wasn’t it?”

Varric grit his teeth and grinned, which was more a feral teeth baring than anything, and gently stroked Bianca as Isabela finally lost it, laughing so hard that she inhaled half of her ale.

Best day ever, indeed.


	2. Get Out // (DA2, Anders/Isabela)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tuesday Prompt Fest @ [Dragon Age](http://dragon-age.livejournal.com/). Prompt was "Get out." Anders/Isabela, post Dissent.

“Get out,” is the first and only thing he says to her, his face buried in his hands and tears staining his face, and he means it.

Darktown is cold today -- it’s never cold. Sewers don’t really get cold, do they? Too full of claustrophobic darkness and heat. But it’s cold today.

Or, maybe it’s just him.

( _Killed a girl. **A mage**. A girl._ )

Isabela’s not cold though. Never is. She’s hot, on fire with anger, maybe, but he’s not sure. Confusion, definitely, and maybe a side of compassion that she’d never dare admit to.

Because she doesn’t. Care about him, that is ( _what we do is only skin deep, kitten_ ).

And yet, here she is. Whatever that means.

“What,” she starts, and it’s not a question, and it’s not angry. Sad, maybe. Disappointed, mostly, like he’s a dog that’s pissed on the rug. “What were you _thinking_?”

Thing is, he wasn’t. Justice was. As for what _he_ was thinking, well, Anders is too tired to really make an effort to understand that right now. So instead he’s sitting on the ground, defeated, hoping it will show him a mercy and swallow him up before he hurts anyone else.

A moment passes. Cold seeps through his threadbare coat.

And then?

Warmth. It sidles up next to him; naturally, easy. Comforts him with a sharp chin on his shoulder. Smiles. Tells him that sometimes people fuck up; asks what kind of boring world would it be if they didn't. Nudges him with a gentle shoulder. Tells him that he’s not doing anyone any good sitting here in the dirt feeling sorry for himself.

Kisses him; just once, on the cheek, but it lingers. And it’s _warm_ , Maker, so warm.

“Get out” is the last and only thing he says to her, his face buried in her neck and hair and tears staining his face, but he doesn’t mean it, not really.


	3. Traditions have to start somewhere, don't they? //  (DA2, Gen, M!Hawke/Isabela, Fenris, Anders)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday Prompt fest @ [DA](http://dragon_age.livejournal.com). Prompt was "Strange local customs"

Sometimes Garrett _hates_ the Hanged Man.

Mostly because of nights like tonight -- he’s four tankards of beer deep, down five vital pieces of clothing, and is fairly certain he has _lost_ Merrill sometime between hands three and, well, eleven. Ish.

Oh, and he also is being straddled and...distractingly _scratched_ by a rum scented pirate.

“No, I assure you,” Isabela explains, running her fingernails across his chin, “this is perfectly normal in Rivain.”

“What, exactly?” Garrett asks. There is too much going on right now on his lap to be certain of exactly what she is referring to.

She seems annoyed that he even has to ask. “Beard scratching is a traditional Rivaini greeting.” When he still doesn’t seem to get it, she lets out a petulant sigh and quickly continues. “Men come back from the sea and they haven’t shaved, and they look so rugged and handsome and,” she gets a bit lost in her thoughts, staring at the ceiling before getting back on track, “anyway, we run our fingers through it to say...” she pauses, dipping closer to him so she’s whispering in his ear (when did his pants get so tight?) “welcome home.”

She leans back, a smug look on her face. Out of the corner of his eye, Garrett sees both Anders and Fenris rub their chins sullenly.

“Frankly, I’m disappointed,” Isabela continues, her hands now resting on Garrett’s shoulders. “You claim to be a learned man, and then know nothing of the beautiful Rivaini culture.”

Garrett pauses, thinking about his next words carefully. Or, he would have, were the alcohol not making that incredibly difficult. “You’re bullshitting me, aren’t you?" His eyes narrow and his tone gets both accusatory and proud, like he's figured out a riddle. " _You_ just want to sit here and scratch at my beard all night.”

Isabela doesn’t answer, not really. Just sort of grins. “If you mind, I’ll stop.”

Nah, he really...no. Shakes his head with a smile tweaking at the edge of his lips, and the next sound he hears is that of nails against skin and wiry hair. Feels the pressure of her fingertips against his cheeks, and then, the pressure of her lips against his. Tastes rum and something else, something sweet. Hears catcalls from all around the bar and the sound of Varric's bellowing laughter.

Sometimes, Garrett _loves_ the Hanged Man.


	4. Avalanche // (DAI, Cullen/F!Trevelyan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Tuesday Prompt fest @ dragon-age.lj. Prompt: Avalanche. Cullen/F!Trevelyan.

_**Avalanche**_  
  
The way she began to look at him, see him, came on slowly, like gentle snow melting upon her nose.   
  
But the thing is ( _hands scarred, tongue sharp, lightning dancing across her fingertips_ ): she’s never been gentle, or slow. So when she knocks on the door to his office (his  _quarters_ ), tucked away from the rest of the noise of Skyhold, it’s louder than she meant, later than she meant; playing Wicked Grace causes her to lose time, even as she gains bravery, though for a moment that courage falters as the pause before the door opens is heavy, and long. But when he answers his eyes aren’t bleary and his voice isn’t thick -- he was not sleeping, though he does stand unarmored before her. Soft.  
  
Her tongue stalls. He shivers. “Did... did you need something, Inquisitor?”  
  
There is another pause as she takes him in, running her gaze over him; she wonders if he notices the hunger in it (sometimes, too, wonders if he even _remembers_ their kiss on the ramparts -- he certainly acts as if he does not). “Somewhere out of the cold,” she finally offers as answer, her head to the side, hair spilling over her shoulder like snow settling on heavy branches. She knows she looks pretty when she tilts her head like his. Figures he knows it too, the way his eyes linger.   
  
Then, skyward they go. “Ah, yes. Well.” His voices hitches; he clears it.  _Commands_ it to be steady, just as he does with his soldiers, his thoughts, his hands on long days. “I’m afraid you might find my quar-- that is, I think you may find my office here lacking in that particular comfort.”  
  
 _He doesn’t understand_ , she thinks, and wanders in despite the lack of clear invitation. “I don’t think you understand,” she murmurs, her thoughts spilling out; the drinks during Wicked Grace do her no favors now, apart from the courage lent.  
  
The door closes quietly behind them, but he doesn’t move from it, not really. Presses his back against it and looks at her with the kind of quiet confusion he tends to hide behind when it comes to these sorts of things, when it comes to  _her_. Armor of another kind. “I’m sorry?”  
  
A question and an apology -- or perhaps both, or neither -- followed by a gentle, patient smile, just as he is. But  _she_ , well,  _she_ has never been gentle, and she has never been patient, so like snow crashing down a slope she answers: steps towards him, falls towards him, pushes him further against the door like a force of nature. Hesitation follows, enough to be refused (he doesn’t), and then her hands wrap in the fabric of his shirt and she presses against him ( _soft_ ). Envelopes him, and suffocates further words threatening to escape from either of them with a hard press of her lips against his.  
  
It is a place out of the cold indeed when he answers in kind, his lips bearing the lingering taste of sugar; an understanding, then.


	5. Duck! // (DAI, Solas, F!Lavellan, Dorian; implied Solas/Lavellan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For tuesday prompt fest @ dragon-age.lj. Prompt: Duck!

Up. Down. Up. Down.  _Thwack. Whoosh._  
  
Solas does not need to look up from his reading to see, out of the corner of his eye, the other occupant currently inhabiting his space. Rather, currently  _lounging_ in his space. Currently _throwing a ball up and down_. In his space. “Is there nowhere else you can do…” he trails off, still focused on the book in front of him. Shakes his head to clear it. “...that?”  
  
Lavellan makes an affirmative noise to go along with her nod, conceding his point -- she  _could_ do this anywhere. But she isn’t. “It helps with my hand-eye coordination, Solas,” she explains, even if she wasn’t asked. Even if it’s not entirely true. “Don’t want me to catch you with an arrow, do you?”  
  
The stern quality in her voice -- chastising, even -- causes him to pause and look over at her. To allow a huff of a laugh and a faint smile to ghost across his lips as he takes her in, on her back on the floor with pale hair fanned out around her like she’s underwater. But her reproach -- teasing thought it was -- has no weight, anyway; she can’t catch him, you see. He’s already caught.  
  
To the detriment of all involved, he knows. Should know.  
  
“Besides,” she continues ( _up down up down_ ), turning her own gaze away from the ball and towards him, a crooked smile of her own creeping along to match his. “I like the view here.”  
  
His gaze shifts to something different, something hungrier. But he has no time to counter, to his dismay, before the sound of footsteps is heard on the stairs from the library. Lavellan cranes her head to see who it is: Dorian, nose in a book, walking with the pace of someone needing to talk. Or argue. Both, probably.  
  
Well, this won’t do -- now she’s  _outnumbered_.   
  
“Solas, head down, will you?” she asks, with the sharp urgency of battle but twice as many words, and although this feels like a small surrender to whatever point either of them were trying to make, he does as asked; usually does, after all. And its good that he did, because the ball in her hand sails with haste over his head and lands, perfectly, on the book Dorian holds, knocking it out of his hands and onto the floor with a loud  _thwack_.  
  
Lavellan giggles, and isn’t it such a pretty sound?  
  
“Professional as always, Inquisitor,” Dorian says with a dramatic, irritated drawl as he bends down to pick up his book, but the wrinkle-nosed, playful little look he gives her as he does tells all. Then, “Head down, Solas.”  
  
The ball goes sailing back to her, the intent clearly  _not_ for her to catch it, but she does.  _Graceful_ , he called her once. He thought he knew better, now.  
  
Up. Down. Up. Down.


	6. From the Mouth of Ghosts // (DAI, Solas, past Solas/Lavellan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompted @ dragon-age.lj, but i was slow to put it up because i wasn't sure how i felt about it. SO IT'LL GO HERE.
> 
> prompt: they can't recall his name. reference to major character death.

He sheds _Solas_ like a snakeskin late in the night somewhere along the Storm Coast. Takes a new name: something unknown, soon to be forgotten. And it isn't that _Solas_ ever was meant to last, it’s just that he thought it would be _easier_ , that the truth would fit better. But the first few days he finds the shoulders of it tight, and introduces himself still with _pride_ when the barkeep at a lonely tavern asks.

She eyes him curiously, like she might know him. He doesn't stay long. He never does, anywhere. Not anymore.

**

Years pass, the fabric loosens, and _Solas_ becomes a ghost. As do they all; the Inquisition were his friends, of course, but they were never meant to last, not like him. _She_ was not made to last.

(It isn’t that _that_ was ever meant to last -- hungry kisses and panting breaths and _love love love_ \-- it’s just that he thought it would be easier than this to let it go.)

**

And so, as ghosts do, she haunts him.

It starts small, while he studies in the Fade: hints of her laughter on the emerald waves lapping at ancient shores; glimpses of her outline just out of the corner of his eye as he pours over texts now lost to flames; the ghost of breath on the back of his neck, shattering his concentration and sending the letters on the page scattering into nothing but her name, over and over and over.

_Solas_ , she murmurs against his skin, warm, the voice of a dead woman speaking the name of a dead man -- the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth, and the timbre of her voice all headstones in the cemetery he has left in his wake.

History forgets _Solas_. Was _meant_ to. But he will allow, however self indulgent, however sharp the twist of the knife of it is, for _Solas_ to remain for just a while longer, if only on the lips of ghosts. He owes her at least that.

 

 


	7. Hands // (DAI, Solas/F!Lavellan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from dragon-age.lj, "Hands." Solas/Lavellan, post fade kiss, pre being adults and talking about it.

“Solas, I’m going to ruin it.” 

Her plea goes unanswered; already he has put the brush in her hand and covered it with his own, the other going to her waist to guide her gently in position in front of the wall. “I have done all of the preparations; you need only stay within the lines, _lethallan_.” And she can’t see him, but she can hear the smirk in his voice. “Surely our illustrious leader can manage that.”

She makes an unsure sound, tilting her head to look at the outline. It _is_ simple, and small, and in a place where it could easily be covered by, say, a well placed picture. He has done this purposefully, surely, and they are facts that do not go unnoticed -- though she isn’t sure whether to be relieved, or insulted. Furthermore, she _did_ request the lesson from him. Came up behind him as he worked and coyly asked if he offered instruction in the arts. He’d been surprised, and then curious, and then, well, delighted. Pleased someone wished to learn his craft.

...And she had felt only a _bit_ guilty, seeing as her request had had ulterior motives. Not that she didn’t wish to learn, of course, but.. but how could she not have other purpose, after whatever _that_ was, in the Fade? She isn’t made of stone, after all, though the more she thinks on it all, the more there’s that tightness in her chest again; maybe it really was just a dream, and here she is, being a foolish girl.

Oh well. At least she’d learn something out of it. Right?

With a sigh, she concedes. “All right. Okay. What do I do?”

With his hand over hers he gently guides her, leading this little dance. Dabs the paint against the plaster, staining it a shimmering gold. It’s quite lovely. The _color_ , of course. Well, and _this_ ; the way he moves her hand, and the warmth of him. How close he is behind her, so much so that she can feel the ghost of his breath on her neck, can feel goosebumps prickling because of it. How if she just took a step back, just barely one step, she could close this smallest of gaps, turn, and then perhaps, just like in the Fade--

She blinks, and returns her focus. Sees that in her inattention he must have left her to her own devices and she has hopelessly smeared paint outside of the lines, turning the delightful golden halla he had drawn for her into some sort of... abomination. 

The Keeper would be so disappointed in her.

Guilt rises again, but although it’s on the tip of her tongue, she can’t get an apology out before he supercedes it with his own. “I apologize,” he says, with what she assumes is hesitation, a stammer; she’s unsure, truly, what that sounds like from someone like him. “I fear I became distracted.”

She swallows hard. “Yeah.” A beat. “It’s okay.”

“No, it is unwise,” he replies, and she can’t really tell if he’s talking about painting anymore. Maybe he doesn’t either, because he’s quick -- too quick -- to clarify: “The process is delicate, and time sensitive -- it would do neither of us well to work when our heads are not clear.”

His hand is still on her waist. It doesn’t need to be. But it is. 

Her response is a ragged sigh, and the motion sinks her a hair’s breath closer to him. But it does her no good; like a halla he spooks, pulls his touch from her, from her waist, from her hand. The brush clatters to the ground. Her face burns; she can’t bear to look back. This isn’t the lesson she wanted to learn.

Foolish girl.


End file.
